


Strange Sorcerer, Weird Wizard

by CrimsonWriter



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Am I the first one with a tag? Wow, Auror Harry Potter, Dark Dimension, Death Eaters, Dimensional Energy, Escape Artist Snape, Gen, Magic, Rubber Ducks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-01-30 03:59:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12645657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrimsonWriter/pseuds/CrimsonWriter
Summary: Doctor Strange had seen quite a few…well,strangethings during his tenure as the Master of the New York Sanctuary. But even he has to admit that a slightly catastrophic visit to the London Sanctuary takes the cake. Especially when his Cloak keeps trying to hook up with another cloak.Completed: 11/26/2017 (mm/dd/yyyy).





	1. Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> …the problem with having two of my favorite characters (in different fandoms, Doctor Strange and Sherlock) being starred by the same actor (and they both have a ton of smarts!) is that they tend to bleed into one another. I have tried my hardest to uproot the Sherlockian tendencies out of Strange, but I'm not entirely certain how well I did. I've been told that Sherlock is still really evident, but it's not a bad thing, so. XD
> 
> For clarification, this is after he'd been there for a bit.

When he stepped out of the London Sanctuary, Doctor Strange was not planning on getting attacked. Then again, most of the time that he'd been attacked, he hadn't been planning on it.

But the point was that he, like most regular human beings, liked food—which, after the mess that he'd just finished cleaning up, had been in short supply. And his stomach was filing complaints. Many, and to any and all departments that might care.

So stepping out onto the street into the middle of a firefight was a bit of a downer. Frankly, Strange was surprised that they hadn't stopped to wonder what that weird growling noise was. His arms lashed out and forearm shields appeared, energy lancing through his body. One of them shattered when a green light impacted it head-on, but since the light had dissipated with his shield, he disregarded it and quickly formed a new one, energy flow being directed to the now-bare arm.

The side that had sent the green light faltered when his shield blocked it—and now that he had time to think about it, what exactly _were_ they using? Most aerial weapons (namely, bullets) had become useless against the energy shields. These lights were not bullets, nor were they fireworks or even glowing chemicals being spat across the makeshift battlefield. As he watched them exchange the lights for a moment longer, he realized that they all did something different. Red and green lights dropped the person (sorcerer?) where they were standing, but light blue lights caused people to be cut and pink lights caused them to wobble dangerously for a moment and then fall over.

Interesting.

"Don't just _stand_ there and look intimidating with your cloak and fancy glowing shields!" one of the people in the red robes yelled. " _Do_ something!"

_Do something? Okay, let's get the innocent people out of the way. Then I can figure out what the hell is going on._

He let the energy coil in his gut, before twisting it savagely and _shattering_ it into the world, engulfing both sides of the opposition and moving them and himself to the Mirror World.

They all stumbled as they landed, seemingly right where they had been.

Then they all looked at him.

He shrugged nonchalantly. "I'm not entirely certain what you are, but I didn't want anyone innocent getting hurt. So please, go ahead. I'll just stand right here while you duke it out."

The red robe who addressed him earlier snorted, "That's not what I—we're—whatever. Don't talk anymore."

"Gladly."

Apparently, the ones in the black robes and masks took offense, because they began targeting him. More green lights careened his way, and he dodged most of them and set shields in the way of the ones that he couldn't. He popped his neck and let one glide by his ear, before resuming his stance from before, looking completely unbothered. Strange loved doing it. It irritated everyone. He had gotten better, but he still loved being an asshole to the ones that targeted him.

A few glanced at one another.

One of them got close enough to touch, and for a moment it seemed like he would. Then the stick appeared, as if he were about to prod Strange with it. Fiery lightning sprang between his fingers in a shower of sparks, and the stick was sliced into a dozen pieces as it came down.

He smiled, and lashed out at the man's third eye. The mask cracked and the man crumpled to the ground. Something sounded like Dormamu crunching on gravel, and it took him a moment to realize that it was his stomach, trying to get attention and maybe get fed.

Energy coiled around his scarred hands, hot and orange and sparking. He could feel the Cloak lighten, as if it were preparing to either lift off of him and bash someone into unconsciousness (again) or lift _him_ off the ground and possibly bash him into someone. Both had happened before. Multiple times. The latter, mostly because he was occupied looking at or fighting someone or something else.

"Was that supposed to be a relic?" he asked, genuinely interested. "It sucked, in case it was supposed to be a relic. Or did you steal it? A stick does not work well as a bashing tool—I used a vase-looking relic as a bashing tool. Still have no idea what it's supposed to do or how to use it."

"Oi! Concentrate on the problem, mate!"

"I personally do not see a problem," Strange said. "A bunch of easily-destroyed relics is most definitely not a problem, as well as the inept sorcerers who wield them like they're supposed to be special."

Another of the red robes choked off a laugh. A different one scoffed. "Inept? We trained for years to be this good."

"I had training for eight months and had to figure the rest on my own," Strange said evenly.

The one who almost laughed grinned at him, and bright white energy curled in the man's palm. "Does this suit your fancy more, good sir?"

He studied it as well as he could from his vantage point. "Not the energy I use. What do you pull from?"

"…pull from?"

"Please don't tell me that you pull from yourselves. No, don't answer that. No wonder you're inept."

Another green light lanced its way from the dark robes, and he formed a two-handed shield in an instant. It wavered but held when the light hit.

"Look, I don't know what you're shooting at me, but it's obviously ineffective," Strange said, exasperated. "Would you stop?"

"About that, how do you _do_ that?" the same one with the strange energy in his palm said. "And just so you know, those things that you keep blocking, they're supposed to kill you if they touch you. And they're supposed to be unblockable by anything metaphysical."

"I dislike being killed," he said dryly to the dark robes.

"No shit, Sherlock," said the one with the energy.

"No, my name is Doctor Strange."

"You most certainly are. How does that work for you, with the factual and the impossible?"

Strange smirked. "Not impossible. Simply very, very unlikely."

Apparently, their distraction with each other had allowed the dark robes to come up with some semblance of a plan. Three split off from their group of twelve and beelined towards him.

The Cloak lifted, billowing about him and clutching him securely as he soared over their head and landed with a quick twist to face them, the Cloak sweeping about his ankles.

A shining rod formed, infinitely harder than it looked and burning to anyone but its maker. He ducked and pivoted, under another green light and out of the way of a dark blue one, rapping the rod across the back of one's knees and sharply elbowing the same man right on the spine, precisely between the seventh cervical vertebrae and the first thoracic vertebrae. He wasn't entirely sure if he had simply popped the man's back rather painfully, or had pushed the disc out of alignment.

The following yell was really no help.

He ducked under the man's flailing arms, resolving to come back to him later. The second and third of the dark robes lunged at him. He went low, the Cloak detaching from his shoulders and wrapping around the one on the left. The one on the right was promptly flipped over his shoulder, wrapping around his feet and letting go when he straightened. This one was at least sort of smart, tucking and rolling with the drop, though once he ran out of momentum, he laid there like a landed fish, gasping and flopping a little.

A little disappointing. His stomach filed another loud complaint. He ignored it.

He turned back to the first one, who was recovering and seeming to try to glare hatefully at him. He seemed to have forgotten he had a mask on.

Strange reached over and slammed his charged hand against the man's solar plexus and relished the bug-eyed look a split second before the man was forcefully ejected from his body and then driven back in through the natural tug between spirit and body.

Unlike his abrupt initiation, he wasn't nice enough to catch the man who tried to kill him—multiple times—before he hit the ground, wild-eyed, with no breath, no explanation, and probably thinking that he'd gone crazy.

"Did you have a good time?" he asked the winded man. "I enjoy it, personally. Makes my studies go by so much quicker."

"Are you _crazy_?"

He turned to the energy man. "Nope. Not as far as I know. I was a neurosurgeon, not a psychiatrist."

Green eyes studied him frankly. "So you're not crazy, I'm not crazier than I last checked, you called us sorcerers—honestly, I haven't heard that before—and you're obviously powerful but you don't register on my readings. For clarification, I am a _wizard_. This is a wand." He held up the stick-like, fragile relic. "Now, what is a _relic?_ "

Strange hadn't noticed it before—he'd been more interested in the man's energy. "You've got one about your shoulders," he said, nodding to the invisible cloak that obscured part of the man's robes and arms. His own Cloak seemed to be very interested, poking and prodding the invisibility cloak draped carelessly around the man's shoulders. "The energy surrounding it is a bit more linked to the Dark World than I like, but the feel is very interesting. How old is it? Do you know?"

The man suddenly swallowed—in surprise or in apprehension, Strange couldn't tell. "…as far as I know, it's an heirloom. According to family legend, it's a gift from Death. I'm guessing eight or nine hundred years old."

"Interesting," Strange murmured, watching his Cloak slowly prod the man's cloak out of hiding. "Very interesting. Cloak, don't bother the guy. If he wants to hide, that's his own prerogative."

If it were human, it would be sulking in the nonexistent corner.

"Is your cloak… _pouting?_ "

"It does that," Strange said dismissively. "So do I, occasionally. May I?"

The man hesitated, his hand flying to his collarbone, where the cloak was attached. It seemed to go even more invisible.

"Never mind," Strange said, backing off. "My curiosity getting the better of me while I'm hungry. I know better than to piss off relics."

If it had a face, his Cloak would be glaring at him.

"Yes, I am talking about you. Possessive, overly motherly, and easily offended. Don't deny it," he said. He turned back to the man, who was glancing between him and his Cloak, and then his own cloak, as if checking to make sure that his cloak was still not personified. "I do need to know your name. And I'd like a textbook. Or perhaps a name of a bookstore that I can go to."

"Uh." The man swallowed his surprise. "Um, I'm Harry Potter. No titles that I feel warrant being called by repeatedly. Put a cork in it, Ron!"

The redhead turned away to muffle his laughter.

Potter shook his head helplessly. "As for the textbook, it would be better to go to the bookstore. There's a pub in London." He reeled off the address and explained Diagon Alley. "Look for Flourish and Blotts. That's our bookstore. You'll need to exchange money at Gringotts for galleons—it varies a lot, anywhere from seventy-five pounds to a galleon to _five_ pounds to a galleon. Thursdays are usually best for exchanging."

"Why Thursdays?"

"I don't know," Potter admitted. "I think the goblins like screwing with us."

 _Goblins? First otherworldly monsters hellbent on consuming the Earth, then murderous (misunderstood, my ass) gods, and now goblins. What's next?_ Batman _appearing out of the woodwork?_

Strange blinked once, shook his head minutely, and continued on. "Thanks. I need some food now. Preferably before I get dropped into another weird firefight and think I've finally lost my mind."

Potter grinned and slapped him on the back. "Don't worry, my friend. I lost mine a _long_ time ago."

"He was about eleven and jumped on the back of semi-murderous troll," the redhead deadpanned.

"And you were oh-so-safe as you pelted it with splinters of wood," Potter retorted, rolling his eyes. He seemed to conjure a card and passed it to Strange. "You sound American, and their Ministry is better about tech than we are. Give them a call, explain your predicament. You're a sorcerer?" he checked. Strange nodded affirmative. "It doesn't mean anything to me, so it probably won't mean anything to them, either. They might not believe you and send someone to erase your memory of the incident, but feel free to very visibly defeat them with your…energy? Magic? Spells? Am I using any of the correct words?"

"It doesn't matter," Strange said. "The concept is there."

Potter shook his head in disbelief. "I can't believe I'm having this conversation, but okay. You need to defeat them, otherwise they won't believe you when you say that you're a sorcerer. I'm one of very few wizards that can do things wandless, and I'm not anywhere near…whatever it is that you do."

"Energy manipulation is the nicest way of putting it," Strange said.

"Yes, you've said something similar before," Potter muttered. He glanced at some of his gesturing fellows. "Sorry. I have to go. The rogues are waking up again."

Strange just looked at him. "We are in the Mirror World. There's no point in going anywhere."

Potter looked at him incredulously. "What—I don't even want to know. Get us out of here. I've had enough of a headache for one day."

Strange's stomach murmured in agreement.


	2. AC/DC

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As it turns out, dimensional energy and magic do not go together well. No matter how much the Cloak of Levitation pouts.
> 
> Set probably three months after the last piece.

"Loki. As in, Norse god of mischief, mayhem, murder, and magic."

"I will admit, I have not heard that description," Strange muttered. "Mischief, yes, magic, yes, but mayhem and murder, no."

Potter looked exceedingly amused. "In the Wizarding World, if you say 'mischief', mayhem and murder are automatically counted behind it, whether it's said or not. Especially after his actions here, I would guess that our unspoken rule applies to Asgardians as well."

"Wonderful. Cloak!"

The beautiful cape froze, mid-prod of Potter's back.

"I didn't bring it," Potter informed the Cloak. "You seem to intimidate even inanimate objects."

"It's not inanimate. It's pretending," Strange muttered.

"And I'm going to pretend that I didn't hear that," Potter said cheerfully.

The Cloak prodded him anyway, and then turned and…stood? floated? in the corner.

"Your Cloak is sulking again."

"It does that," Strange said absently, pouring over the book in his hands.

"Yes, I've heard that before."

"I get more comments on Cloak than I do on my actual abilities."

"It is rather dramatic and attention-grabbing. Perhaps that's why the Wizarding World in general has such huge egos. We all feel like something out of a blockbuster movie because of our billowing cloaks."

Strange snorted. "That would make sense if the majority knew what a blockbuster movie _was_."

Potter paused. "Yes. I'm still getting questions about rubber ducks."

The sorcerer looked up, incredulity stamped on his broad forehead. " _Rubber ducks?_ "

"I tell them that it's a bath toy and they don't believe me."

Strange dragged a hand down one side of his face. "And the sad thing is—wizards are human, too."

"They're inbred," Potter offered.

"Ah. That makes a bit more sense. _Rubber ducks_."

Potter made a strange, almost chortling sound. "So, are we going to get this show on the road?"

"You might have been introduced to the weird and bizarre—"

"And strange."

"—decades ago," Strange continued, ignoring the pun with practiced ease, "but I only got introduced a year and a half ago. Give me a break. I've never taught anyone magic. Ask me about biochemistry or anatomy and I can help you—but don't spring magic on me suddenly."

"So it _is_ —"

"It's _dimensional energy_ channeled through this dimension and through your _chakras_ to form what can be called spells, programs, rituals, or whatever the hell you want to call it. I'm _sorry_ that 'magic' is a full five syllables less than 'dimensional energy'."

"So what _do_ you do when magic is sprung on you suddenly?"

He laughed, completely unabashed. "I scream as my consciousness is catapulted through the multiverse."

"…fair enough."

"What do _you_ do when magic is sprung on you suddenly?"

"It depends on where I am. If I'm at home, I reach over and tickle the culprit. If I'm in public, I dive for the nearest cover and shoot the bastard."

"With what?" Strange asked.

"What?"

"What do you shoot the bastard with? Do you use guns in the Wizarding World?"

"Uh, no. Magic and tech don't go together. Period. My best friend almost blew herself up when she tried integrating the two. Like AC and DC currents or something."

"Interesting," Strange murmured. "Technology has never been affected by my presence or energy being used around it. Unless it's being used _on_ it, such as being stabbed."

Potter snorted. "Yeah, well, that will kill just about anything."

"I've had to replace my laptop three times now," Strange said, scowling.

"I can't say that I sympathize. I never tried to get into technology. I might have an inheritance that could let me live like a king for the rest of my days, but that's a waste of money right there. Having to replace a computer or phone every time I get too excited would get old within a week."

Strange smirked, and then sighed. "Okay. Let's try this."

He drew on his own memories from his lessons at Kamartage, calling out the drills and standing shoulder to shoulder, doing them slowly at first before Potter got the hang of the movements.

"I'm still not getting glowing sticks of destiny."

"Good God, I hope not," Strange retorted. "I would be truly surprised if you did, wizard or not. It took me months before I got so much a spark, and I supposedly have an aptitude."

"Supposedly?"

"I don't see it," Strange admitted.

Potter sighed and shook his head. "Same time, next week?"

"Assuming no catastrophes crop up between now and then? Of course."

* * *

Potter was wearing his Invisibility Cloak when he came the next week. Strange had the wonderful sight of seeing Potter's face when his Invisibility Cloak reached up a corner and slapped the prodding fabric of his Cloak of Levitation away.

Potter's expression very much embodied the sentiment of a cross between _Oh my God_ and _What the hell?!_

"I never thought I'd see a day where another semi-sentient relic wasn't in awe of the Cloak of Levitation," Strange said, amused.

"Yeah, uh…this one doesn't seem to be all that impressed."

Potter sounded a bit strangled. Strange was fairly certain that it was _not_ because his Invisibility Cloak was holding him too tightly.

His Cloak of Levitation was undeterred by the rather obvious disinterest, whirling around Potter until Strange could see the man becoming dizzy.

"Look," Potter finally snapped. "Do you have a coat hanger? Or even a coat rack?"

Strange pointed silently.

Potter whirled his cloak off his shoulders with an obviously practiced twist of arms and wrists and settled it on the coat rack. "I'm here for lessons with this weirdo with an even weirder cloak. You two sort this out amongst yourselves. I'm _certain_ that if my Cloak needs rescuing, _Levitation_ , you'll back off and let it come find me. I can't figure out how you get around, Invisibility, but I know you've shown up in some spots where I _know_ I didn't set you down. Got it?"

"Do you always scold your possessions like such?" Strange asked.

"I do when they're inexplicably sentient," Potter growled.

The sorcerer nodded his head in an unspoken 'fair enough'.

After all, he didn't start talking to his things until they started responding back.

* * *

Three weeks after they're second meeting for the sorcerer's teachings, Potter got it.

Frankly, the sorcerer was amazed. "Five classes, several dozen books, and a background in wizardry. I wish that had been offered in college rather than the sciences if you pick it up that fast as a result."

Potter grinned savagely, panting heavily and holding the burning energy rod. Then he relaxed his stance—

* * *

Strange woke in the hospital.

"So what kind of cultist shenanigans did you get into this time?" Christine asked dryly, checking the IV in his arm and noticing that he was awake. "Did you save the world and shove it backwards in time again?"

He heaved a deep breath and coughed hard. After a minute of coughing like he'd just had pneumonia, he rasped, "Last I remember, I was teaching. What happened?"

"Your Sanctuary blew up," she said simply. "More like a sonic shockwave rather than fire and smoke, if that's any consolation. Every piece of glass, porcelain, crystal, or other similar materials in the place was shattered into a billion pieces. I _personally_ picked out a hundred and three shards out of your back."

"Potter?"

"Oh, is _that_ his name? He's not listed on any records in the world. No facial matches at all. Where do you _find_ these people, Steven?"

"Christine, _is he all right?_ "

"No worse shape than you. Multiple lacerations, mild concussion, partially deaf, and cracked ribs. He woke up several hours ago."

"In other words, I'm fine."

The woman whirled. "What on _earth_ are you doing out of— _holy—_ "

Potter leaned against the doorway, looking absolutely fine. No bandages, no cuts, no IVs trailing behind him.

"Thank you, Nurse Palmer," Potter said evenly, still looking at Strange.

Christine whirled back to him. "Can you do that too?"

"No," Strange said flatly. "He's a wizard, not a sorcerer, Christine."

"Like that's _such_ a big difference," she said scathingly.

"Actually, it is," Potter interrupted. "He was teaching me sorcery. My magic and his dimensional energy don't mix very well, apparently."

"AC/DC currents," Strange sighed.

"Exactly," Potter said ruefully. "I need to get back to my kids, Strange, but I'll stop by the Sanctuary and repair as much as I can."

Strange rubbed his temples. "I truly do not understand. You have a relic yourself, but are unable to use dimensional energy without it blowing up in our faces? It doesn't make any sense."

"No," Potter agreed. "The explosion only happened after I released my stance—I'll look into the properties after I reassure Ginny that I'm still alive and that you haven't murdered me in my nonexistent sleep."

Strange waved a hand dismissively. "Get out of here, then, before she decides to hunt me down. And stay away from the rest of the relics! I don't want a repeat happening outside the Mirror Dimension!"

Potter paused, then shook his head. "We'll discuss that later."

Then, with a crack, he was gone.

Christine looked at him. "You know what? I thought that you were living up to your name before, Steven, but now I truly know what _strange_ looks like."


	3. Severus Snape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which snarky Steven Strange meets the even snarkier, sullen portrait of Severus Snape.
> 
> Set probably about a month after the last one.

Strange almost fell out of his chair when Potter burst through the doors to the Sanctuary, quickly rising to his feet, scroll still in his hands.

"This is going to sound absolutely crazy, but have you seen a two-dimensional man with stringy black hair, hooked nose, and severe black robes around?" Potter all but yelled, panting.

Strange ran that sentence through his mind again. "…no, I can't say that I have." He definitely would have noticed a two-dimensional man. How would that even _look?_ "Let me return this to the library," he continued, holding up the scroll, "and explain this phenomenon to me on the way."

So that was how Strange found himself striding quickly through the Sanctuary's halls, Potter at his side and gesticulating wildly about some 'blasted painter'. "Painters," Potter panted, the shorter man almost having to skip to keep up with Strange's long legs, "are practically revered in the Wizarding World. Other people commemorate their dead with overcompensating tombs and fantastic sculptures, we practically bring them back to life in painted form. They are masters of the brush and often travel to the subject when he or she is still alive to understand their personality, and then imbue the painting with their observations and magic."

All Strange could think was, _that's…somewhere along the border of insanity and absolutely fascinating_.

"The problem is—paintings are just as crafty and manipulative as they were in life," Potter said. "There's an entire language in another art form that we call Ancient Runes, dedicated to keeping paintings on their designated paper and painted on the edges of the actual painting and inscribed onto the frame. Well, Severus Snape was a genius. He's dead now, almost eighteen years ago, but he had a painting done of himself to grace the world with his presence practically forevermore." Potter rolled his eyes. "Merlin, I respect the man, but he could drive a pacifist to murder within three minutes of him opening his mouth."

Strange laughed, returning the scroll to a slightly distracted Wong, who was eyeing the wizard warily.

"Well, this blasted painter screwed up on the Runes by a millimeter and Snape got out, so he's currently somewhere in reality," Potter spat.

"That's helpful in narrowing down a location," Strange said dryly.

"Well, Snape's painting was originally in Scotland, I tracked him down to a small village just outside of London, then he was spotted in the heart of London by one of my colleagues, and then I get a call from the American Ministry of Magic telling me, 'uh, hey, you have an escaped painting over here in New York, could you come get him?'"

His imitation of the American accent was atrocious, Strange noted.

"Well, I would be glad to!" Potter continued, throwing up his arms in exasperation. "But I don't think that wizards have set foot in New York in the last three hundred years, because New York is a bloody big city and they didn't even give me a blasted, buggering _street address_ to start with!"

"So…why did you come get me? I'm virtually no use," Strange said.

"Because," Potter growled, "unlike the rest of the world, in the Wizarding World, like calls to like. The last time something like this happened, it was a painting of a British redcoat that went from the Ministry for Magic straight to the London Sanctuary. Of course, no one knew what it was before, this was thirty years ago, but I recognized the picture they took of the Sanctuary. Paintings apparently really like your relics."

As if on cue, there was a crash upstairs. They bolted for the source of the noise.

"Snape!" Potter yelled.

Strange took the stairs four at a time, almost flying up the staircase. "Severus Snape, please refrain from touching the relics any more than you absolutely have to!"

"I would _love_ to meet the imbecile who believed that enchanting a cloak with a protective personality was a good idea," a dark voice growled back. "In fact, I would be _honored_ to introduce him to my platinum potion's knife, and lay out why you don't set inanimate objects with personalities. Preferably on his _skin_."

Strange skidded to a stop and had to stifle a laugh.

"Cloak!" he called. The red cloth immediately disengaged from the painting.

"Mr. Potter," the man said, straightening his robes with a dire snarl. "Explain to me why you have yet to track down the imbecile that calls himself a _painter_ and instead went running all over the island."

"Please step away from the relics, Mr. Snape," Strange said warily.

"My deepest and most… _sincere_ apologies," the man sneered, obviously not sincere. "Potter, as usual, has declined to introduce us. My name is _Professor_ Severus Snape."

Strange hummed, unimpressed. "Being an arrogant bastard is all well and good, _Mister_ Snape—any sensible society should not be giving titles to their dead—but I certainly hope that you were not so _obvious_ in your lifetime. Unless you would prefer me to call you _Former_ Professor Severus Snape? It's a bit of a mouthful, but doable. My name is Doctor Steven Strange; I am a sorcerer and a former neurosurgeon, and it is my genuine _pleasure_ to meet such an individual."

Strange sneaked a glance at Potter—his wizarding friend was looking torn between being utterly alarmed at the prospect of the two sniping at each other, stunned at Strange's sudden showing of his rather barbed tongue, and helpless laughter.

"He was," Potter managed.

Strange looked at him questioningly.

"Obvious," Potter said. "He _was_ that obvious in his lifetime."

"Interesting," Strange said, coming closer to the painting. "How is it that you were not fired? Any school teacher could not have possibly been as grouchy of a bastard as you are so obviously for more than a class period—"

Potter cleared his throat. Strange stopped and looked at him.

"May I remind you: wizards. And that conversation that we had about rubber ducks."

Strange blinked, and then groaned.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, people! I'm currently working on an Avengers story that involves an extensive road trip--and like any good road trip, it involves places, music, food, and history. If you feel like it, would you guys mind leaving a review with a popular radio station in your area, a local restaurant that you swear by, a local monument or museum, street artists that you remember since forever, or bits of history that most people outside of your area don't know? Thanks!


End file.
